In the writing workshops I so love to attend, we often discuss the terms "creative nonfiction" and "memoir." Generally speaking, as only a bunch of word-nerds could, we make quite a case for interpreting our memories through our imaginations. This post is like that. It didn't happen exactly like this, but in some important ways, this story is true. Here's to memory, creativity, and whoopie cats. And here's to Hardin County, with its beauty and its blemishes.
Riding alone was one of the joys of my adolescence, an escape from the hell of high school. I rode Mo, a big, black, smooth-gaited, classy gelding with an old soul. The land over Whoopie Cat Mountain, so named because legend had it that there were wildcats there (bobcats, Daddy always said, though others claimed to have seen pumas), offered sanctuary, peace, God. It was also a great place to gallop long and hard, once you got up the hill, reason enough for me to make regular rides there.
On that crispy fall day in 1974, though, the trail offered a spicy side order with my solitude.
Mo stumbled back, maintaining eye contact with the snarling whoopie cat. Aware of a million sensations—my quick intake of air, the horse's fear, the November leaves and pine needles rustling under our feet, the several miles separating us from the nearest people—I reached out to steady him. The horse tossed his head and snorted, showing the whites of his eyes, as I instinctively grabbed the rein close to his head and swung up. We crashed through the woods, adrenalin-fueled, oblivious to the spider webs, low-flung limbs, cockleburs, and still-potent poison ivy, heading for the pasture beyond. I let Mo rest and graze until we both cooled off, then we headed toward a significantly wider trail with more visibility and little likelihood of a wildcat.
The rain started up, of course—it may never rain in southern California, but it sure does in southern Illinois—and we made for the sweet darkness of that old barn, the one with the hand-hewn feed troughs that as a child I pictured baby Jesus in. When the rain slowed down, we took off again, this time toward civilization.
Crossing back over the meadow, I could hear it getting closer. Mo stopped in his tracks, not even finishing his stride, ears pricked forward, head high. I looked around frantically—could it be the same cat, here, in the field?? Then I saw her, an enormous doe, almost head to head with my 15 hand horse, so close I thought I heard her breathing.
Looking at my 17 year old self through the multifocal lens of memory, I question the whole holding-his-gaze thing, but I know for sure I saw a bobcat that day, and it definitely panicked my horse and me. And while I might not have really heard the doe breathe, I remember the liquid beauty of her eyes—she was that close.
Another world
is not only possible, she's
on her way. Many of us won't
be here to greet her, but
on a quiet day,
if you listen carefully, you
can hear her breathing.
(Arundhati Roy)
is not only possible, she's
on her way. Many of us won't
be here to greet her, but
on a quiet day,
if you listen carefully, you
can hear her breathing.
(Arundhati Roy)
